


Driving Home For Christmas

by 4badmice



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Christmas, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Reminiscing, Romance, mentions of minor character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 10:37:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8976280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4badmice/pseuds/4badmice
Summary: Arthur feels quite alone in the world at Christmas. He didn't expect Eames to try and change that.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Inception, and the title is borrowed from Chris Rea, of course.
> 
> Merry Christmas!

 

Snow comes out of the darkness in streaks of white light, hurling towards the windscreen with hypnotic relentlessness: it looks like a steady stream of rapidly dissolving stars, like traveling at warp drive.

Arthur blinks; he can barely see the road anymore as everything is white and, further ahead, pitch black. He had to slow down to a moderate pace after the old car had begun to swerve; it is a heavy vehicle and not at all made for such conditions.

 _That's what you get for your sentimentality_ , he tells himself. It was his grandma's car, and he simply hasn't found it in him to sell it after her death. She'd probably call him a fool for that, but still. He grips the wheel tightly for a moment, unable to stop his eyes from swimming. He is on his way back from the cemetery, and it doesn't get easier. Every time he goes there, it is with an irrational anticipation, as though he is actually going to see his gran again. The harsh reality of her grave and reading her name on the stone, despite having chosen it himself, was and is a perpetual shock and still as surreal as her passing away four years ago. There is nothing to it, though; she wished to be buried in her hometown, next to her parents, and even though it means having to drive for a few hours whenever he wants to go there, Arthur heeded her wish, of course. Which means, all apart from the fact that his job requires quite a lot of traveling, that he doesn't visit the grave as often as he thinks is appropriate. He also missed her birthday this year, and even though he knows that she'd not at all mind, he feels guilty about it.

Well, at least now he has managed to get home in time, having come back from London on the previous day; she loved Christmas. Arthur bought a beautiful wreath and took it to his grandma's final resting place, his heart growing heavier with every mile because it's Christmas Eve and he knew he'd not find any warmth or consolation where he was headed, only loneliness and the feeling that the one person who was ever really close to him abandoned him. He's aware of how unfair it is of him, because she has been there for him all his life.

He doesn't remember his mother, who has taken off shortly after his birth, and he has never met his grandpa who has been lost at sea during the second World War. His father has never been in the picture either, his grandma wasn't sure she had even met him, so it had only ever been the two of them, Grace and Arthur, Arthur and Grace. He misses her more than he can comprehend, and he misses the home she provided. Her house is now his, and same as the old Lincoln, he wouldn't dream of selling it, even though he rarely spends any time there. It's not the same anymore, anyway; it's like a memorial, a place full of echoes and things long gone. He keeps returning there at least once a year, but it makes him ache. Especially today. Christmas always was special with his gran, who never seemed to tire of it. Arthur can still see her in the kitchen, baking gingerbread and humming old carols under her breath. The whole house was filled with the scent of wintry spices and fir once December rolled around.

Wiping a hand across his eyes which are burning from sorrow and lack of sleep, Arthur shakes his head: he should accept that his one true home is as irrevocably lost as his gran, and leave. He should find a hotel instead of staying at the house. He hasn't even turned up the heating when he arrived earlier today, it is probably freezing cold anyway, and there isn't any food either. Maybe he should rent it out, have it filled with new life. Somehow, though, that notion seems unfeasible, like a betrayal. He shakes his head again: he will think about it tomorrow, back in his flat, after he has cleared his head a bit. He is too emotional to deal with it right now, too worked up.

His thoughts stray back to the graveyard, the wreath leaning against the headstone which is probably covered by snow already, and for some reason, it makes him shiver. He has turned the radio off because he can't bear the artificial sounding cheerfulness or the songs which only make his heart ache even more; in his opinion, silence is preferable to that.

 

When he finally turns onto the drive, he's bone tired. It's still snowing heavily, and Arthur briefly pauses after closing the garage door behind him; it's perfect weather really, which makes it even harder to bear that Christmas isn't something that concerns him any longer. Slowly, he trudges towards the front door, listening to the sounds his footsteps make in the snow.

The front door isn't locked. Arthur hesitates, wondering if he was so preoccupied with his own thoughts that he actually forgot to lock it. Before he can come to a decision however, he notices something else: it's not cold inside. It's not exactly warm either, but definitely not as chilly as the air was when he left.

On any other day of the year, Arthur would have ignored the fact that burglars don't need heating, and would have pulled his gun out. As it is, he simply stands there in the dark hallway for a moment and listens. Somehow, it doesn't feel threatening, but he's getting curious. Quietly and without turning on any lights, he walks towards the living room, keys still in hand. He's lived here for most of his life, he doesn't need to see where he's going.

“Umph!” Well. Admittedly, he didn't expect any oncoming traffic in the hall.

“Careful, darling.”

“... Eames?”

“As I live and breathe.”

Arthur fumbles for the nearest lamp and switches it on. Eames looks a bit rumpled, so no news there, and his eyes are twinkling as usual. Something in Arthur twitches. Maybe he fell asleep at the steering wheel and this isn't really happening. Well. Eames did feel rather solid just now.

“What are you- why didn't you turn on the lights? And what are you doing here?” Great. He's stammering. He hates it when he does that. Coming to think of it, he only ever does it when Eames is around and manages to catch him by surprise. Who seems entirely unperturbed:

“I was taking a nap. Bit jetlagged, actually.”

“What are you doing here?” Arthur repeats, sounding harsher than he intended. Or perhaps not.

“I'm spending Christmas with you. Merry Christmas, by the way.”

“I'm not spending Christmas here.”

“Yeah, I noticed that it's lacking in seasonal decorations, and your fridge was pitifully empty when I arrived.”

Arthur ignores the past tense for a moment so he can make himself clear: “I'm not staying here. I'm going to find a hotel.”

“Why?”

Arthur shakes his head: “And what do you mean, you're spending Christmas with me? I haven't heard from you in months, and now you suddenly decide you'd like my company?”

Infuriatingly, Eames smiles: “We're not getting anywhere if we keep answering questions with questions, darling. So, for clarity: I ran into Cobb and asked him where you'd gotten yourself off to.” Meaning it took him a detour to L.A. and several drinks until he had finally wheedled all the useful information about Arthur's whereabouts out of Dom, plus a bit of explanatory backstory.

“Great,” Arthur mutters. It's not that he's not pleasantly surprised, secretly. He's simply too tired to deal with the complex issue that Eames has become. Eames, whom he's spent one drunken night in Bogotá with. He can't remember what they talked about, but he vividly recalls how soft Eames' skin was, how amazing his lips felt on his own, how it seemed to him that things were finally falling into place after years of dancing around each other. The morning after however was abysmal. When Arthur woke up, Eames was sitting on the edge of the mattress, smiling with just the corners of his mouth and an affectionate expression as he regarded the other. Arthur felt woozy from too much alcohol, but he can still see how perfect Eames looked to him.

“I've ordered coffee for you, darling,” Eames said, still smiling. “You're probably going to resent me for it, but I have to leave.”

“Now?” Arthur's voice had sounded shrill in his own ears.

“Yeah. Got some unfinished business to deal with. You know how the serious people get when one pisses them off.” He squeezed Arthur's hand, which he only now realized Eames had been holding the whole time, and leaned forward to kiss him: “I'll find you once I'm done.”

And then he left, just like that, and Arthur never drank the coffee because he felt so betrayed, despite Eames' words.

Eames easily reads him right now: “I told you I had some business to finish and that I'd find you, didn't I?”

Arthur blinks: “Yes. Four months ago. I do have a phone, you know?”

“I know. But I couldn't.”

Eames is entirely too calm whereas Arthur feels like a whiny child.

“What kind of business was it, then?” he asks.

“The kind that gets you killed if you step out of line. It's very lucrative, mind you, but I think I'm done with jobs like those.”

Eames still smiles, but his eyes are serious now, as is his tone. For the first time, Arthur really looks at him. Eames isn't only rumpled but seems to have lost some weight as well. And he appears to be as exhausted as Arthur feels. Maybe he's telling the truth. Arthur has missed Eames for so long, and of all the things missing in his life lately, he is the only one Arthur could actually have back, if probably only once in a blue moon.

He sighs and takes a step towards the other man, and then another, until their chests nearly touch. Maybe this is too easy, but it's better than being alone with ghosts all the time, is it?

“You don't have to leave tomorrow morning?” he asks, just to be sure.

Eames' widening smile seems to illuminate the room. Despite his fatigue and whatever happened in the past months, he is still beautiful. “No, I don't,” he mutters, and then their breaths mingle and they kiss, and it is glorious. Eames gently cups Arthur's face with his hands, caressing. “You're cold,” he mumbles once they've come up for air.

“You're warm.” Arthur smiles for the first time today and Eames marvels at his lovely face. Quietly, he wraps his arms around the other, who looked so lost just moments before. Cobb told him about Arthur's grandmother, but Eames only fully understood what her loss must have meant to Arthur once he'd arrived at the house. It seemed irreversibly empty yet unchanged, as though the occupant just nipped out to the corner store a long time ago. Later, Eames was startled out of his nap from the sound of a car, and when he saw Arthur through the window as he walked towards the house, he looked forlorn even in the dim light of a streetlamp, making Eames feel glad that he had come. He didn't want Arthur to feel lonely, especially not on Christmas Eve.

“I'm sorry,” he now mutters. “For keeping you waiting. I'll make it up to you.”

“Yeah?” There's a hint of mischief in Arthur's eyes now.

“Yeah. But first things first.” He takes Arthur's hand and leads him into the living room, where he turns on another lamp.

“You brought a tree.”

“Yep.” Eames beams. Admittedly, the tree is a tad sorry-looking. There weren't many trees left when Eames arrived, so he couldn't be picky. But it's a fir and it smells good, and with a bit of tinsel, it'll do.

“I wasn't going to spend Christmas here,” Arthur says, slowly, eyes still glued to the tree which is currently leaning in a corner rather haphazardly. “I didn't even buy any groceries.”

“I did, however.” Eames beams even more, apparently rather pleased with himself.

“You didn't even know-”

“It was a risk I was willing to take. And I'm quite rich at the moment, if you didn't yet gather that.”

Arthur shakes his head: “I didn't think you even liked Christmas.”

“Just because I'm a crook- and rich- I'm not heartless.” In fact, Christmas is his favourite time of the year, which is why he usually spends it somewhere cold. Christmas and warm temperatures don't go together in his opinion.

Arthur just nods absently, and Eames assumes that he's trying to decide how to proceed. He's very private, this Arthur, and having Eames at his gran's house for Christmas would probably mean a massive concession for him.

“We don't have to stay here, love,” Eames therefore says gently. “We can just as well take the tree and find a hotel, if that's better.”

Arthur feels something hot behind his eyes. It's been a long time since anyone cared for him like this, making his well-being their first priority. Admittedly, he's been keeping people at arm's length for most of his life, but from the very first moment that they've met, Eames effortlessly broke and keeps breaking every single one of his defences. He doesn't even _break_ them so much as... well, they simply seem to be giving way to him, whether Arthur wants it or not. Maybe he will be able to chase the shadows out of this house, to give it back some life. It already feels different, which albeit has nothing to do with the room temperature but a lot with Eames' sheer presence and probably a little bit with the faint but noticeable scent of fir as well. Which Arthur realizes isn't a haunting memory any longer but rather the beginning of something new.

Taking a deep breath, he turns around: “It's alright,” he says hoarsely. “We can stay here.” Momentarily, he looks forlorn again, but as his eyes roam over Eames, he begins to smile, slow and dazzling as the rising sun.

“I'm glad you're here,” he murmurs, and he's beautiful. _That's how being in love feels_ , a small voice snickers in Eames' mind, _suddenly, all the corny songs make sense._

Yep.

“I don't want you to be cold,” Eames replies. He reaches for Arthur's hand, tugs him over to the couch and sits down, pulling the other man closer until he's lying on top of Eames, which feels amazing.

Gently, Eames nuzzles the tip of Arthur's nose with his own: “Missed you,” he mutters, and there's so much affection in his eyes that it actually gives Arthur goosebumps.

“Yeah,” Arthur's voice is as deep as it gets, “same here.” He shakes his head, unable to stop smiling: “Merry Christmas, Mr Eames.”

 

The End

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> After watching Inception again recently, I was surprised by how differently I remembered Arthur. He doesn't appear as tough all the time as I recalled him; that doesn't mean he isn't, but he certainly does seem to have other sides to him, in my headcanon at least.  
> (I so wish there was a sequel, by the way...)
> 
> Apart from that, English isn't my native language, sorry if there are mistakes I overlooked. I know I tend to abuse the tenses, too.
> 
> #stopyulinforever  
> #wecanstopyulin


End file.
